The Deceased Characters' R&R Centre
by The Sugarfaerie
Summary: R&RRest & Recuperation. Featuring Boromir, a mortally challenged Haldir, Sirius Black, Hamlet and many more.


Hello, readers. Welcome to my Parody. I came up with this idea while watching Boromir die in _The Fellowship of the Ring _(sniff!). Thus, this fic was born…

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Les Miserables, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead or Artemis Fowl. This is simply my tribute to Great Writers who write Great Works of Literature, written is a less greater parody form. So there. My sincere apologies to Tolkien and William Shakespeare, who must be spinning in their graves.

This idea has probably been done before. I personally haven't read many, but I'll say anyway that I didn't copy any ideas for this fic from anyone.

The Deceased Characters' Rest and Recuperation Centre 

The Deceased Characters' Rest and Recuperation Centre was an annoyingly sunny ward located snugly between The Society for the Arrest and Capture of Mary-Sues and the grossly under-staffed Home For Those Severely Out of Character. The reason for the Centre's location was due to the fact that the captured Mary-Sues needed to be kept away from those receiving treatment at the Home, as the two often went hand in hand (occasionally in the most literal sense).

The Centre's neon Welcome sign was the first thing Deceased Character Sirius Black saw after being knocked out of his story by possessed drapery. Sirius blinked as before his eyes the sign began to flicker, then went out completely. This was immediately followed by the entrance of an extremely harassed-looking ghost.

"Damn that sign, I keep telling them to give us the funding for a new one- oh hello, who are you?"

Sirius cleared his throat nervously. "Erm, I'm Sirius Black, late of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix…" _

The ghost immediately clapped a hand to his forehead, which failed as his hand went straight through. "Oh right, so _you're _the newbie…Right, better get on with it, then." The ghost, who wore a crown and armour that desperately needed repairing, floated behind a large counter labelled 'Administration', and began to drone on in a very bored voice. "So, welcome to the Deceased Characters' Rest and Recuperation Centre, the home for those who have been unjustly knocked off by their authors for a plot device, bla bla bla…I am the King of the Dead and my Armies and I will be here should you need any assistance, bla bla bla… So yeah, you got all that?"

Sirius blinked again. He had been doing that a lot lately. "I think so… Anyway, why are you there if I need any assistance?"

The King of the Dead shrugged. "Some sort of loophole. My armies and I were already dead when we featured in our story, so we got stuck being Admin."

"Ah, I see."

The King glowered at him, then stamped a paper on his desk. "Here, keep this with you…" he said, handing the paper to Sirius. "This decrees that as you are now with us, you can no longer be the victim of so-called fanfiction after the point that you were knocked off."

Sirius felt happy for the first time in a while. "Great! So I won't be followed around by those Mary-Sues and be forced to spout soapy poetry anymore?"

The King frowned. "Well, no… To be completely safe you need to receive an official certificate from the Department of Backstory, and they're really tricky to get."

"Oh."

"Anyway…" the King said breezily. "You might as well continue into the Inner Sanctum. Have a nice day."

Sirius opened the ornately carved doors behind the King's administration desk, and walked off into the sunset. For about two metres. Then he walked into a bench.

Needless to say, the man taking a nap on the bench was not amused. Neither was Sirius, who now sported a growing bruise on his kneecap. He was about to protest, but the other man cut in first. "Orcs! Orcs! We're under attack!"

Sirius blinked once again. His eyelids were starting to ache. "Excuse me?"

The man, upon seeing that Sirius was not an Orc, decided to extend his comradely duties and welcome the newcomer. "So. Your author decide to bump you off too?"

Sirius nodded ruefully. "Yes. I have no idea what I did wrong. What was the point in killing me, honestly? I was in my prime! So I was a bit on the canine side, but really, that was wearing off…"

The other man frowned. "You think you've got it bad? I was the hero of my people! My father thought the world of me! I go on this quest that's trying to save the world from a piece of jewellery, and what happens? I take three arrows to the chest and my little brother hooks up with some blonde bird from Horses R' Us. What was so bad about me, anyway? I wasn't trying to hurt anyone. All I wanted was that nice, shiny ring." He looked up. "I'm Boromir, son of Denethor, by the way, who are you?"

Sirius sat next to the man on the bench. "Sirius. Sirius Black. Hey, is my little brother anywhere around here? A short, weedy guy in need of some serious eyebrow plucking? He goes by the name of Regulus."

Boromir's frown deepened, and he slowly shook his head. "No… Was he dead before your story started?"

"Well, yes, actually."

"Ah!" Boromir said knowingly. "Then if he's here at all, he would be helping the Armies of the Dead in Admin. If you don't find him there, you might want to search the lavatories, the janitors have been understaffed lately… They managed to recruit Enjolras the Blond Wonder to help them by promising him a bright red vest, so the chances are that your brother might be mopping the floor."

Sirius's face brightened. "Really?"

Boromir was about to answer when the doors to the Centre burst open, revealing a very confused man with long blond hair and rather pointy ears. "Err, excuse me?" he asked tentatively. "Where am I?"

"Haldir!" Boromir said with surprise. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Haldir seemed very distressed. "You know, I have no idea. Apparently I'm dead, but if so no-one's told me about it."

This statement was immediately followed by the King of the Dead, who now seemed so stressed that he was on the verge of spontaneous combustion, if such a thing were possible for a ghost. "What are you doing here?" he moaned, grabbing Haldir by the arm. "You're not dead!"

Haldir looked noticeably relieved by this turn of events. "I'm not dead? Oh good, I was getting worried. I mean, I am an Elf, and supposed to live forever, and all…"

The King groaned with frustration. "Yes, you dolt. You're supposed to live on happily in Lothlorien or whatever you call those woods of yours- hey, who let you in, anyway?"

Haldir shrugged. "Some old guy, looked a bit like you, all see-through… He wore a lot of armour and seemed to be moaning about someone called Claudius."

Boromir could have sworn that the King's ears began to smoke upon hearing this. "Oh damn that Ghost of Old Hamlet! Always going on and on about his murder and how everyone should take revenge for it, and letting all sorts of riff raff in…"

"Hey!" Haldir protested. "I happen to be a high ranking Marchwarden, thankyou very much."

The King wiped spectral sweat off his brow. "Great, you go out there and be that, then," he sighed, and promptly kicked Haldir out of the Centre door. The door slammed shut as Haldir hit the ground on the other side, followed by a very un-Elvish "Owwww…"

Boromir glowered. "How come he gets a second chance at life?"

The King of the Dead locked the Centre door firmly, seeming very satisfied with himself. "I believe the correct term is 'mortally challenged'… When a character that is supposed to live dies in a film or a fanfic. Mistakes like that happen sometimes… Why, just last week a dead Mary-Sue took a wrong turn and ended up in here. It was a nightmare. All the boys from the _Les Miserables_ crowd had to be placed under lock and key until we could cage her and deliver her to the Society for the Arrest and Capture of Mary-Sues."

"Ah yes," recollected Boromir, shuddering in remembrance. "She managed to chase me half-way around the Centre before the day was up."

"And I bet you it will happen again!" a voice from a corner of the room piped up, tossing a coin. "Heads it does!"

Boromir groaned. Couldn't bloody Rosencrantz and Guildenstern ever shut up and stop gambling? It was very bad for group morale. Not to mention the amount of money he owed them by now. However, nothing anyone could say or do would deter them.

"Heads!"

"But you just got that!" Guildenstern exclaimed at his literary partner.

"Yes, I know," Rosencrantz agreed, tossing the coin again. "Isn't it amazing? Heads!"

Sirius Black was about to ask why exactly Rosencrantz seemed to be tossing so many heads, when the doors of the Centre were flung open suddenly and a very large crowd marched through. "Almost the entire cast of _Hamlet _along with a good smattering of angst!" The King of the Dead announced happily. "Oh, we haven't had such a large group check in since the _Les Miserables _lot!"

The afore-mentioned _Les Miserables _lot had now returned from whatever lavatory duty they had been performing, and were not happy with what they saw as intrusion onto their territory. "Hey! Hey you!" a tall, blond Frenchman called dramatically. "What business do you have, coming in such a large group, then?"

"Ah, well," one of the newcomers began. Boromir could tell that this man liked to do a lot of talking. Really, then, he should get along with the _Les Miserables _crowd. "You see, our author ran into some problems towards the end, so he killed everybody off in one scene. Only two people were left standing. Even the namesake of the play, that is to say, me, ended up dying. Such an anticlimax." He sighed. "It really makes a man call his life to perspective… What a piece of work is man! To be or not to be, that is the question…"

"Oh, SHUT UP!" one of the Frenchmen yelled, exasperated. 'It's bad enough with Enjy here spouting about mythology and the power of the people all the time, we don't need another one!"

The blond Frenchman turned on the other one, seeming outraged. "Why, Courfeyrac, how could you!"

The newcomer seemed to agree. "Yes, how could you! How dare you interrupt me when I'm just about to start soliloquising?" He drew his sword. "I, Prince Hamlet of Denmark, challenge thee!"

Courfeyrac blinked, then drew a gun from his waistcoat. "All right, if you insist…"

Any sense of possible negotiation was lost as the two groups dived into a full-scale fight, various knifes, rifles and daggers flashing everywhere while a little man with clip-on wings and a very red face zipped about trying to stun people with his gun.

A blonde woman calling herself Ophelia skipped about the room singing songs and braiding flowers in her hair, which a girl by the name of Eponine from the _Les Miserables _team promptly pulled out. A man in the back corner muttered something about Queen Mab having been with her, and Ophelia mistakenly took this statement to be from Eponine. Boromir looked on with fascination as the two women descended into something resembling an old-fashioned catfight, complete with hissing and loud French swear words.

"Err, shouldn't we do something to break them up?" Sirius asked, as a slimy, hunched thing went slinking around the melee liberating people of their jewellery.

"Yeah, we should," Boromir agreed airily, then yelled out; "Hey, Gollum, can you get me that nice, shiny ring of Combeferre's? I always liked it…"

Sirius gave Boromir an annoyed look. "But we really should stop them before they kill each other…" he said, ducking a stray bullet.

Boromir shook his head. "Nah, they won't die. After all, they're already dead."

Sirius nodded in understanding. "True. Still, we should do something."

"Indeed, it _is _getting rather boring," Boromir confirmed, pulling a pack of cards out of his right pocket. "Care for a game of Go Fish?"

Sirius considered reverting to his slightly more canine form, then decided against it. "All right," he sighed resignedly. "Go Fish."

Out behind the Administration desk, the King of the Dead kicked his feet onto the desk and leaned back in his chair. Finally, the end of a long hard day. Now he could just sit there and relax, maybe get the Ghost of Old Hamlet to make him a spectral cup of coffee…

The King of the Dead jumped as two very loud figures bounced into the room. "Well, here we are!" one of them announced. "Merry and Pippin, late of _The Lord of the Rings_!"

"What!" the King exclaimed. That did it. He was getting sick of all these canon errors! Couldn't the Canon Upholding Squad be relied upon for _anything?_ "But you're supposed to be alive!" he shouted.

The shorter figure (and this was saying a lot, as the two figures were already very short) shook his head demonstratively. "Actually, no. You see, our author was very helpful in providing an Appendix, which consequently lists when each of us bites the dust."

"Oh no," the King whispered, seeing a whole line of people take their places behind Merry and Pippin. "No…"

He was going to have to take a raincheck on that cup of coffee.


End file.
